


between lions and men

by eightloops (figure8)



Category: C-Pop, EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Ancient China, Angst with a Happy Ending, Antagonism, Building trust, Enemies to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18454865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/eightloops
Summary: I want,Zitao thinks, dizzy with anger, dizzy with lust,I want to have you, I want to kill you, I want to conquer you like you’ve conquered my home.- -The House of Huang is no more. Everything that used to belong to them is Wu Yifan’s now. Their land, their family name, their only living son.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **_please read this note:_**  
>  i hesitated immensely about adding a non/dub-con warning. in the end i chose not to, but please be advised of the following:  
> \- my main motivation writing this story was to subvert the “war prize” trope. ultimately my goal here is to write about choice and trust and love. that being said...  
> \- zitao spends a good chunk of the narrative terrified that he’s going be raped. while the rape does not actually occur, the _threat_ is very palpable and constantly referenced.  
> \- the society depicted here is an archaic military culture. women, especially lower class women, have little to no bodily autonomy. same goes for servants of all genders. gendered violence is generally socially accepted. sex is used as a bargaining tool and as a show of power. in this sort of setting, consent, which is a modern concept, becomes very very hard to define. 
> 
> miscellaneous warnings:  
> \- it is obviously never named, but multiple characters clearly suffer from war-related ptsd. this manifests in flashbacks, panic attacks, and auditory hallucinations. these symptoms are either ignored or misinterpreted.   
> \- if you have any knowledge of imperial china, i apologize in advance for this terrible bastardized version of its history and geography. the dynasty names are all obviously fake, same for most of the places referenced here. suspension of disbelief, y’all! 
> 
> this fic has a [soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/thedeadrobin/playlist/6FgngOtfZ2INPn4bnZ9hcw?si=ME08DrWpRb-UdlZkAX2NGg)!
> 
> enjoy!!

I THOUGHT OF MYSELF AS A CITY AND I LICKED MY LIPS.  
I THOUGHT OF MYSELF AS A NATION AND I WRUNG MY HANDS,  
I PUT A THING IN YOUR HAND. WILL YOU DEFEND YOURSELF?

— _RICHARD SIKEN_

 

**———**

 

Zitao looks down at his blood-stained hands, at his muddied blue robes. Like a frenzied bird, his heart pumps blood in and out at a crazy pace, thumping right inside his brain, too loud. _My brother,_ he thinks, dazed, trying to make sense of the chaos surrounding him. There are horses _inside_ the palace, knocking tables and precious vases around. On his right, a soldier dressed in yellow smashes his sword into a ceramic statuette, shattering it to pieces. Instinctively, Zitao raises his hands to his ears, to get away from the noise, to protect himself.

_My brother is dead._

There are hands grabbing him, holding him firmly by the arms, dragging him, and Zitao cannot _see,_ he opens and closes his eyes but he cannot fucking _see,_ and the racket around him is only getting _louder,_ until—

—until he’s thrown back on the ground, to his knees, the stone cold and hard against his palms, against his bare legs, he didn’t have the time to dress himself correctly, they attacked at dawn—

The men around him kneel and their armors rustle, metallic, _clang clang clang_ echoing in Zitao’s ruined home.

“Your Majesty,” a voice says behind him—the man who took him, Zitao guesses, “This is the only survivor.”

Zitao’s heart tightens in horror. He knew they would kill—the king, the king _has_ to die—but this means—his sisters, his _little brother—_

Zitao blinks. Looks up.

The man who led an army into Zitao’s _bedroom_ is tall, broad. His long black hair is matted, sweat and blood making it sticky, heavy. There’s an old scar running from right under his left eye to right above his upper lip, slashing through his cheek. There are other wounds, too, some fresher than others, that Zitao can see. On his neck, on his shoulder, where the plates of his armor don’t hold quite right anymore.

When he speaks, his voice is deep, unaffected. “The second son?”

“Prince Zitao,” the other man confirms. “Direct claim to the throne.”

 _His Majesty_ laughs at that, upper body shaking, rattled by loud dry chuckles. “Which throne, General? There is nothing left of the Huang Kingdom.”

The sentence hurts like a blade, sharp, plunged into Zitao’s chest. Like a bucket of ice water, it awakens something in him, primal, _regal._

“As long as I breathe,” he spits, finds the murderer’s eyes with his own, holds his gaze defiantly, “There is a Huang Kingdom.”

“He’s right,” the General says. There is—something, in his tone. An edge. A worry. “Your Majesty, it would be wise—”

“Kill me,” Zitao interrupts. He has no interest in the inner workings of this foreigner’s court. Blue blood to blue blood, or nothing. Zitao is going to die today, he has accepted that, but he will not dishonor himself any further. “This is what you came to do, isn’t it? Eradicate my clan? Do it, then. Kill me.”

A large hand reaches for his face, fingers under his chin, forcing him to look up, angling his head uncomfortably, like a horse on display at the market.

“I’m not going to kill you, Princeling,” the foreigner grins. “You’re much more interesting alive.”

 

🌙

 

 _As long as I breathe_ becomes Zitao’s motto. They tie him to the General’s horse, make him walk bound and bloody and dirty through the streets of Qingdao for his brother’s subjects to see. The humiliation burns just as much as the scorching sun, but the worst is unexpected—a little girl sobbing on the sidewalk, _Our prince, our poor prince,_ muffled into the thick fabric of her mother’s skirt. For her, Zitao forgets his parched throat and his aching feet, and straightens his body, marches proud. _As long as I breathe, there is a Huang Kingdom._

Once they’re out of the town and into the forest, Zitao is forced on horseback, hands still tied, the rope biting into his wrist like a thousand small needles. He learns the General’s name is Xiumin. He guesses the man who crushed his brother’s army is a Wu. There were rumors, that the Wu clan was advancing east, leaving devastation and grief in their wake, but the council had dismissed the threat as inconsequential. Zitao wonders what different turn the events could have taken had his brother’s court been prepared for the attack.

He tries talking to the soldiers. He expects commoners to show him respect, close to the fire, the night black around them. They laugh in his face. _As long as I breathe,_ Zitao repeats like a prayer. _I am the Crown Prince of Huang, the only heir. As long as I breathe, my clan is alive. As long as I breathe, there is hope._

“Your King,” he tries again, expecting more laughter, or maybe the cold shoulder. The nobles have retired to their tents. “Your King, he—”

 _This,_ somehow, gets him a reaction. “The _Emperor,_ ” one guard hisses. Zitao blanches.

“What do you mean?”

He knows what it means. He knows. He still needs to hear it.

“The Great Dragon has conquered Han, Zhao, Wei, Chu, and now Huang.”

_Nothing left, no one left. No allies, no saviors. Just you._

 

🌙

 

Zitao expects to be thrown into a cell to rot as soon as their convoy makes it to the Imperial Palace. Instead he is brought to a bathhouse, where four female servants scrub him clean and lather him with perfumed oils, then help him into luxurious silk robes the color of jade stone. It is only when one of the women arranges his hair and sticks a  golden teardrop comb at the base of his ponytail that he realizes what he’s being prepared for.

“No,” he croaks, surprising himself with how terrified he sounds. The youngest servant, a short girl with wavy hair and a round face, places a reassuring hand on his forearm. The middle-aged woman that did Zitao’s hair observes him sternly.

“His Majesty has requested that you join him in his chambers tonight,” she says. Her voice is deeper than he expected it to be, worn by life in the same way her face is, with all these lines on her skin, marked by worry. Zitao, who has spent his short existence shielded from anxiety and sun rays alike, feels his stomach twist at the mere concept she represents. “Here is an ointment,” she continues, pushing a small opaque glass vial into Zitao’s slack hand. He closes his fingers around the container reflexively. “You can use it to prepare yourself for him, but it is also useful for bruises. If you need any more, ask one of the girls.”

“Bruises?” He hates how his voice wavers. He is stronger than this. He is a _prince._

“The Great Dragon is a kind man,” she smiles, maternal, almost concerned. Zitao waits, but the conclusion to her sentence never comes. _The Great Dragon is a kind man_ is all she has to offer. Kindness, Zitao scoffs internally, would have been beheading him alongside the rest of his family. Even leaving him to starve in prison, here, would have been _kind,_ compared to what he’s about to go through.

Just like being made to march like a commoner for all to see, it is not the _physical_ part of the act Zitao fears the most. It is the shame, the horror of being _taken,_ conquered like the last parcel of his family’s land. Zitao is a prince—Zitao is the last Huang heir. He won’t spread his legs for anyone, he decides right there. If the _Great Dragon_ wants, he’s going to have to _steal._

 

🌙

 

The Emperor’s room is big, way bigger than the King’s quarters had been, back home. Lavishly decorated, red and gold, heavy tapestry on the floor and silk sheets on the large bed. Zitao knows where he’s supposed to go—where he’s supposed to _kneel._ His brother had been lenient, not forcing him into marriage, but Zitao is familiar with the customs of the _hòugōng._ He knows how pretty girls wait for men of royal blood in their chambers smelling of flowers and incense, head bowed, wordless.

But Zitao is a prince. _As long as I breathe,_ he reminds himself, _they cannot take this from me. No matter how low I am made to stoop, I am the Second Son of the House of Huang._

He sits on the edge of the Emperor’s bed. Blasphemous. _Testing._

“You must have a death wish,” Emperor Wu tells him, a smile in his voice but not on his face as he enters the room. “You are educated enough to know your place.”

“My place,” Zitao says, and he stares right into the Emperor’s eyes again, his second test of the night, “Is in Qingdao.”

The Emperor does smile, then. It is an exhausted smile, but a visible one nonetheless. It is… curious. They are both gauging each other.

“There is nothing left there for you to return to, Princeling,” Emperor Wu says after a beat of silence.

“My people,” Zitao says, “My land. That is enough.”

Emperor Wu looks amused. “You were not born to rule,” he remarks. “You were not _trained_ to rule.”

Zitao shakes his head, insulted even though he hopes it doesn’t show. “You know nothing of me.”

“I know your fire, Princeling,” the Emperor says, sickeningly sweet. “I want to tame it.”

 _A toy,_ Zitao realizes, panicked. _Not just a whore; you were brought here to be a toy for a bored, bloodthirsty monster to play with._ But then, oh, _oh,_ an opportunity. This is a man who enjoys the chase. This is a thief who steals for the thrill of it.

Zitao stands up and starts undressing.

The Emperor’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”

“This is what I was sent here for, isn’t it?” Zitao shrugs. The flowy fabric of his green robes pools at his feet like a quiet lake. “Get on with it, then.” _How’s that for a hunt, asshole,_ he thinks victoriously.

“Cover yourself,” Emperor Wu orders, and now his gaze has turned hard as steel. _Bingo._ Zitao takes a step instead of obeying. The Emperor eyes his naked body with impressive restraint, facial expression almost impassive. A hand comes up to curl around Zitao’s wrist, grip strong, edging on painful. There are still rope marks there, red, angry. “Be careful, Princeling.”

He gets sent back to his own room just like that, robes hastily refastened.

Untouched. Unbroken.

 

🌙

 

He is a prisoner, but he is also the son and the brother of a king, and the staff of the Imperial Palace treats him _almost_ as such, with reverence if not with the proper title. _My Lord_ and _Sire_ instead of _Your Highness,_ that will take some time to get used to.

His room is beautiful, an adorned jailhouse. He spends his hours there, doing nothing, praying, eating when food is brought to him, sleeping when the night falls. The doors are not locked, but there are always guards in the hallways, and Zitao isn’t naive enough to hope they wouldn’t stop him.

On the sixth day, he gets a visitor.

“Oh, you _are_ as pretty as they say.”

The boy—and it’s a boy, barely Zitao’s age—the boy is tall and fair and slender, long jet-black hair up in a bun, kept away from his face by a _wangjin._ His red robes are embroidered, gold thread, white thread, a whole scene of trees and warriors and—and _dragons,_ and Zitao gasps, gets up hurriedly and bows. The boy laughs.

“Worry not,” he smiles, “I will not inform His Imperial Majesty of your terrible manners.”

“Your Highness,” Zitao says shakily, eyes still glued to the floor. Prince Shixun seems good-natured, and he jokes, but Zitao does not know him, has never had the occasion to _read_ him. _You must remain alive,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like his baby brother’s hisses inside his head. _You’re the only one left. Swallow your pride. Play your role._ “Forgive this humble servant,” he grovels. “I am still learning.”

Of the two Wu brothers, Zitao knows, Shixun is reputed to be the coldest. The Emperor is a warlord, tempest inside him, leading him. Shixun reads, Zitao’s brother’s ambassadors had reported, spends his days preparing for the role of advisor. That trip was made long ago, when the Emperor was still the _Crown Prince_ of Wu, when there had been no empire, only warring kingdoms.

“Rise,” Shixun orders. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me. I will not have you beaten.” Zitao looks away. “I came here only to see what all the fuss was about,” Shixun continues. “His Imperial Majesty does not usually take prisoners.” He pauses, pensive. “I thought, at first—they say the people of Huang are very loyal to their royal family.”

“They are,” Zitao says, pride swelling in his heart, coloring his voice.

“Then he should have taken one of your sisters,” Shixun says, conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather.

 _As a wife,_ Zitao’s brain completes. _He means he should have married one of your sisters, to tie himself to the throne inextricably._

“Then I am glad my sisters are dead,” Zitao breathes out, devastated, angry. _Resting, they are resting, safe, not forced to bed our King’s slayer._ “Now he only has me.”

“Yes,” Shixun says, something cloudy in his eyes Zitao cannot quite decipher. “You certainly could pass for a girl,” he chuckles, mostly to himself. Zitao’s cheeks heat up uncomfortably. He knows his face has reddened. “My brother,” Shixun says, “Does not usually lay with men.”

Zitao takes a hurried step back, the back of his knees knocking against the bed. “But you do,” he guesses.

The corners of Shixun’s mouth curl upwards, feline. “Yes.”

“Please,” Zitao says, “Please don’t.”

The Wu prince frowns, then seems to get it. “Oh, Zitao,” he shakes his head. “Don’t fret. Not even I can touch what belongs to the Great Dragon and get away with it.”

 

🌙

 

A man in light grey robes is waiting for Zitao at the bathhouse the next time he is sent there.

There is a tub in his room, and a servant comes in every night to help him bathe; which means tonight Zitao is being prepared again for an encounter with the Emperor. It is highly unlikely that he will escape this one unscathed.

“Good evening, my Lord,” the man bows when Zitao enters the space. He eyes the shallow pool warily. “My name is Yixing. I am a healer.”

Zitao furrows his brows. “I am not unwell.”

“His Imperial Majesty sent me,” Yixing says gently, “To make sure of that.”

Zitao feels a hand on the small of his back. The scent of flowers hits his nose. It’s Tzuyu, the young woman with the wavy hair. He has seen her a few times since that first night, enough to learn her name. She brought water to his room once.

“Yixing won’t hurt you,” she tells him. Somehow, he believes her, and that is enough.

The healer inspects his body with clinical interest. His hands are warm on Zitao’s skin, the contact welcome. Zitao isn’t— _wasn’t_ the youngest of his siblings, but he has— _had_ two older sisters, is used to being babied, adored, constantly touched. He misses it.

“You will need a salve for this,” Yixing informs him, pointing to the faint red lines that still mar his wrists. “I will have someone deliver a jar to your chambers.”

 _I want the scars,_ Zitao doesn’t say. _I want the reminder._

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Yixing smiles—bright, genuine. Zitao decides he likes him. “That particular ointment stings quite a lot.”

“I have known worse pains,” Zitao shrugs.

“I am certain, my Lord,” Yixing nods. “Your shoulders are too tense. A warm bath will help. I will tell Tzuyu which essential oils to use.”

And he does, because it smells different, when Zitao lowers himself into the water. Nicer, maybe. A smoother scent. Tzuyu brushes his wet hair, puts flowers in the braid once she’s done.

“I feel like a bride,” Zitao jokes, but it tastes bitter in his mouth.

“I have attended Lady Song,” Tzuyu says. The Emperor’s favorite concubine, Zitao knows—has garnered. “She sings his praise, says he is an attentive lover.”

“She has to,” Zitao scoffs. “He would have her head. You forget I used to be a prince.”

Tzuyu lowers her eyes, blushes bright pink. “I apologize, my Lord.”

“Don’t be silly,” Zitao says. “You are the only one in this forsaken place to talk to me like I’m a human being.”

She helps him into his new, clean robes. This time they are light purple, yellow ornaments running down the sleeves. “My Lord,” she says, quietly, small. He sees the hesitance in her dark brown eyes. “If I may, forgive my impertinence, if I may—suggest—”

Zitao covers her hand with his, where it’s busy buttoning up the garment. “Speak freely to me. I am no one here. You do not need to fear me.”

“You have never been taken,” she says finally, fast, her face still colored. No, he has not. He has taken, he has _loved,_ but he hasn’t— “It hurts less if you forget,” she whispers. “If you close your eyes and think of something beautiful.”

He tightens his grip on her hand. “I will think of home,” he promises her. “Do not worry about me. I was raised to fight. It takes much more to break me.”

She takes a step back, runs her gaze over his frame, assessing her work. “You look,” she says, stumbles on her own words, “Very nice. He will be satisfied.”

 _She doesn’t call him by his title,_ he notices then. _She fears him, but she does not respect him._

“Thank you,” he tells her, and means it. She is gentle, and kind, and too young. She reminds Zitao of—of—

He is the only one left. He will not utter their names. He carries them within him, will carry them forever; or maybe until he can free them, avenge them, take back his land.

He goes into the Emperor’s room, his body taut as a bowstring, his heart steadfast, his fear bridled.

 

🌙

 

The Emperor is already laying on his bed when Zitao comes in. He is wearing a loose, thin dressing gown, black, and his skin looks tanner in this color, warm and earthlike. Zitao sees lean muscle, and scars—battle scars, training scars.

“Come here, little prince,” the Emperor beckons him. Zitao walks to him, silent. _As long as you breathe._ Arrived in front of the mattress, he waits. “Take off your clothes,” comes the order. Zitao’s hands shake. The Emperor’s stare is heavy.

Naked, he should feel cold.

“You’re beautiful,” the man who killed his brother says.

Zitao closes his eyes, thinks of the stone-paved streets of Qingdao, and kneels.

 

🌙

 

It is easy, like Tzuyu promised, as long as Zitao’s mind wanders away. The floor is hard, but the thick mat that surrounds the bed makes it mellower, the subdued position less hard to bear. Zitao recites a poem his mother loved over and over inside his head.

There are fingers cradling his jaw, angling his face upwards. He keeps his eyes shut. The metal of the Emperor’s rings is icy against his skin.

“You’re trembling like a leaf.” _Don’t talk back, don’t talk back._ “Look at me, Zitao.” It’s the first time he’s used Zitao’s given name. Zitao obeys. “What are you afraid of?”

The laugh that escapes Zitao’s throat is strangled, choked. “What do you _think,_ ” he seethes, barely contained.

“Ah,” the Emperor smiles. “There you are.”

 _Zitao!_ The voice inside his head warns him, urgent. He’s going insane, he’s hearing ghosts.

“You’re a sick bastard,” he grits out, uncaring now of the modulations of his tone. He expects a slap, at the very least. Maybe even the Emperor’s sword. He receives neither.

“If I wanted to fuck some lifeless doll,” Emperor Wu says very deliberately, “I could have my pick at any whorehouse in the city.”

He still holds Zitao’s face in one hand, tight as a vice. “Is this what excites you, then?” he asks, pushes—his luck, this man. “You want me to beg for mercy? You want me kicking and screaming?”

The Emperor seems… amused?

“Princeling,” he chuckles. “I do not bed unwilling partners.”

“You are the Son of Heaven,” Zitao laughs humorlessly. “No one can refuse you.”

Emperor Wu raises an eyebrow. “You are refusing me, right now.”

“And I am sure you will see me adequately punished.”

“You are free to return to your chambers. You will never be beaten for this, not in my palace.”

 _He is playing a game,_ Zitao thinks, calculating, quick. _This is a chase. You are the prey._

He slants his eyes. “You brought me here, plucked me from my ancestral home. You have me naked on my knees. I don’t believe you.”

The grip on his jaw bone relaxes, finally.

“Go,” Emperor Wu tells him. “The door is open.”

“I hate you,” Zitao says, cannot keep it in. “I would rather die than warm your bed.”

“Go,” he repeats. “And remember your place, Princeling. I am generous, but I have my limits.”

It’s like déjà vu, dressing faster than light, almost stumbling out of that oppressive, terrible room. Zitao runs to the other end of the corridor, not a single thought given to his unkempt state, heart drumming in his chest. _Unsafe, unsafe, unsafe._

 _I wish he would have just taken me,_ he finds himself thinking, tears stinging at the corner of his eyes. He refuses to spill them. He wants for it to be over. Fear lives inside his body now, a shiver, an illness. He was trained for bigger, scarier fights. He has readied himself—for battlefields, for the poison of the court.

This, his very honor, his integrity, _his family’s fate,_ he does not know how to protect it. _As long as I breathe,_ he tells himself, but there is no one left to breathe for. Curled up in a corner of his room, _not_ his room, _not_ his home, he lets his body shake—dry tears, silent screams, nothing left to lose.

 

🌙

 

In the morning, a servant finds him just like that, on the floor, stiff from sleeping like an unborn child still in its mother’s womb.

“Your Highness,” comes the desolate murmur, “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Delicate hands hover over Zitao’s arm, not quite daring to touch. It is then he realizes. _Your Highness._

“You are from Huang,” he says, voice hoarse from sleep and sorrow.

“Yes,” the young man says, eyes lowered. He is thin, small, the lines of his face soft. His fingers could be those of a woman. It is the way he speaks that Zitao finds beautiful, though. A northeastern accent, warm like a blanket on a Winter night. “My name is Boxian,” he bows his head. “I am at your service.”

Zitao pushes himself off the floor, wipes his palms on his robes. “I thought I was the only one of our people here,” he admits.

Boxian shakes his head. “No, no. My master lived on the border,” he explains. “His Imperial Majesty’s troops raided our town first. My Lord is dead, and so are most of his men, but they took the house staff back with them. Most work in the Prince’s household, now.”

Zitao stills at that. “Then what are _you_ doing here?”

“I was chosen, Your Highness,” Boxian says. “By the Prince himself, for you.”

Zitao nods numbly. He does not understand. Shixun has no business sending him presents—sending him _people._ “Help me clean up,” he tells Boxian. “I bathed yesterday, but I slept badly.”

Boxian brings him fresh robes, and a wet cloth for his face. He puts a golden brooch in Zitao’s hair, wraps his ponytail around it and secures it tightly. It is the Wu way. It feels strange, constricting. Zitao misses the way his hair feels undone against his shoulder.

 

🌙

 

The Emperor requests his presence at lunch. Zitao is dressed formally; pants, boots, undershirt, and a heavy embroidered tunic. It will be hard to divest him of this particular outfit, which has to mean something, but Zitao cannot think of another reason the Great Dragon would want to see him, and dread bubbles up inside him like potion in a caldron.

The Emperor is sitting cross-legged on a long fluffy cushion. There are guards at the door, but he is alone in the dining room. On the low table in front of him, there is enough food for ten people, and two cups, both empty.

“Come sit, Princeling,” he commands as soon as his gaze falls upon Zitao.

“Your Majesty,” Zitao bows, but he cannot help the drop of sarcasm that weaves its way into his words. If the Emperor hears it, he makes no mention of it.

“It is customary,” he says, serving both of them tea, “To offer gratitude when one receives a gift.” He arches his eyebrows, expectant. “But maybe our traditions differ.” _That_ is said, teasingly, _mockingly,_ and Zitao glowers.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” he says, gritted, “But this humble servant is afraid he does not know what you are referring to.”

“The boy,” Emperor Wu frowns. “Did he not come by your chambers this morning?”

Zitao gapes. “Boxian? He told me Prince Shixun sent him…”

Emperor Wu laughs lightly. “My brother _picked him,_ yes. He knows his own servants better than I do, so I asked him for this favor. I thought it would please you, to have someone from your homeland attend to you, rather than a stranger.”

“I do not understand,” Zitao says, honest. “I am a prisoner.”

“Yes,” the Emperor agrees. “You are also of royal blood. I am not a savage.” He picks up a piece of fried fish from one of the plates with his pair of ivory chopsticks, eats it happily. Zitao isn’t hungry, but he knows not touching the food will be considered an affront, so he does the same. It is delicious, but it goes down his throat with difficulty.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he says finally, after having chased the taste of the fish with a gulp of tea. “It is very unnerving.”

“I have heard a lot about you, Huang Zitao,” the Emperor says. “They say you trained years in the mountains.”

“Then you know I could kill you,” Zitao retorts. The other man chortles.

“You would be dead too before my body even touched the ground.”

 _That_ makes Zitao smirk. He’s always loved a good duel. “What makes you think I care if I live or die?”

“You love your kingdom too much, Princeling. I can promise you that: if I die by your hand, your people will never know peace. My brother will make sure of that. They will live in slavery for generations, and they will know that it was your failure that shackled them.”

A tornado rises inside Zitao’s belly. Anger, red, _burning._ He gets up, knocks over a ceramic bowl in his fury. “Do _not—_ ”

“Sit down,” the Emperor orders, hard as steel. “Do not raise your voice at me.”

“I will find you in the afterlife,” Zitao growls, promises. He does not sit down. “I will tear you apart with my teeth.”

“Even in Heaven,” Emperor Wu says, infuriatingly calm, “You will not be my equal.” He takes another bite then licks his bottom lip, satisfied. “Now sit down and finish eating.”

“I would rather starve.”

“Then starve,” the Emperor says coolly. “Get out. You are exhausting.”

 _If he grows tired of you, he will discard you._ What would that mean? Death? Demotion? Prison, for real, in a real cell, dirty and cold? In prison, there would be no way for him to avenge his siblings. But here, here, he does not know how long he can keep himself _interesting._ He does not know how.

 _Liar,_ the voice in his head whistles. It does not sound like his little brother anymore. Instead it sounds—it sounds—

“My King,” Zitao breathes out, his hand seeking purchase on the wall and not finding it. His feet have carried him outside the room. He almost collapses in the hallway, catches himself at the last moment.

 _Liar,_ Lu Han’s voice reverberates inside his skull. _You know what you have to do._

Head clasped between his hands, Zitao inhales deeply, wills his body to calm down. His brother’s voice is gone. He is alone, but soon he will not be. It is still the middle of the day, and the palace is always busy. He has to stand. He needs to go.

 

Boxian looks at him in horror when Zitao enters his own room.

“Your Highness,” the servant hurries to him, “You are so pale—”

“Bring me incense,” Zitao cuts him off. “I need to pray.”

The smell always reminds him of the temple in Tai’an where he first learnt how to fight. Kneeling, palms resting open on his thighs, he closes his eyes and opens his mind.

 _Brother,_ he calls. Lu Han does not answer. _Your Majesty,_ Zitao tries again, _I am so lost._

He begs for guidance, for advice. Instead, he sees.

His home, his father’s throne, Lu Han young and carefree still, their sisters in their long gowns, purple and blue and pink and red. His baby brother, so small, his tiny hand grabbing Zitao’s index finger. The mountains, Zitao’s head shaved, how his sisters had loved running their hands over it the first few days, after he had returned. Renjun, seven years old and shaking with sobs at their father’s deathbed. Lu Han’s delicate features, burdened now, his irises always stormy. Renjun, again, in Zitao’s bed, curled up there under any pretense—the cold, the thunder, anything but the truth—loneliness, grief, all emotions unbecoming of a prince. Renjun had taken so long to mourn, Zitao remembers.

Tears streak his cheeks, small rivers. His body remains unmoved, like stone. _Brother,_ he calls one last time, _please tell me what to do._

Boxian left as soon as Zitao lit the incense sticks. There is no one with him here, and no foreign words inside his head. Only the smoke, and the wind, and this burden.

 

🌙

 

“I miss reading,” Zitao tells Boxian. “I miss sparring. I will go insane in this room.”

The young man’s hands still in his hair. Today’s brooch is ivory and silver, matching the creamy white of his robes.

“Your Highness,” Boxian suggests softly, “Maybe if you asked His Imperial Majesty…”

“I’m not asking anything of that man.”

“The Prince, then? He has a tender heart.”

Zitao turns around, observes Boxian wordlessly for a moment. His servant blushes under the attention, averts his eyes.

“You will ask him for me,” Zitao decides. “I wouldn’t know how to find him anyway. I am kept here like a caged animal. No matter how pretty this cage is.”

Boxian bows down immediately. “I will do my very best, Your Highness.” He kisses the bottom of Zitao’s sleeve. Warmth spreads through Zitao’s ribcage, liquid happiness. With Boxian, he feels—seen, he feels _himself._

 

🌙

 

Shixun seems infinitely self-satisfied when he shows Zitao to the study. The room is covered in books from floor to ceiling, filled shelves everywhere. There is a desk, too, with parchment, and ink. Zitao could _cry._

“Thank you,” he says, his voice maybe a little too watery, too genuine too, “Your Highness, _thank_ you—”

“Thank your manservant,” the Prince shrugs. “He can be extremely convincing.”

Zitao doesn’t really pay attention to his words, already absorbed by the bookcases. He runs his fingers along the spine of a particularly heavy book, dreamy.

“How long can I stay here?” he enquires, hopeful, _hungry._

“As long as you wish,” Shixun says. “If you do not have other duties, you can always come here.”

Zitao bows. “I am indebted to you.”

“You are,” Shixun smiles. “I’ll collect it one day.” He walks around, lets his eyes wander absently. “Boxian told me you dreamt of fighting, too.”

Zitao tries to quell his excitement. “Nothing major, Your Highness. It is just that I—I have been practicing martial arts since I was a very young child—”

“For that, you will have to talk to my brother,” Shixun says. “It is a passion you share.”

 _No,_ Zitao thinks, desperate, _please._

“I am eternally grateful, Your Highness,” he acquiesces instead. “You have been very generous to me.”

“We are the same age, are we not?” Shixun says. “I am used to boredom in this palace. In another life, perhaps, we would have met at your court.” He picks up a scroll, reads a few words, puts it back down. “I like to believe you would have shown me the same kindness.”

 _He has a tender heart,_ Boxian had said.

“I would have shown you respect,” Zitao says, truthful. “Perhaps you would have gained my friendship.”

Shixun’s eyes glimmer. “Enjoy your books, Zitao,” he cocks his head to the right, cat-like. “I will see you around.”

 

🌙

 

He itches with the need to train. Restless, his right leg jostling when he is seated, making the floor under him tremble. He does not ask. He is no fool. No one invites his enemy inside their own house and then gives them a sword.

“Control yourself,” the Emperor orders, harsh. “You are giving me a headache.”

Zitao’s limbs still. They are eating together again, though _together_ might be the wrong word. _You are to join him for dinner,_ Tzuyu had said, tiny and meek at the door of his study.

“I could leave,” Zitao suggests. The Emperor shoots him a silencing glare.

“Tell me what has you so agitated.”

Zitao bares his teeth. “Bloodlust.” The eldest Wu rolls his eyes.

“We have been over this,” he says patiently. “Drink your soup.” When Zitao doesn’t, he sighs. “What do you desire? My brother provided you with books.”

“Freedom,” Zitao presses. “My kingdom back.”

“Ask for things I am able to grant, Princeling.”

Zitao _sneers._ “You are the Son of Heaven.”

“Yes,” he says calmly. “You are proof not even I can get everything I want.”

It is the first time the Emperor acknowledges Zitao is here because he is desired. It had been wordplay, up to now, insinuations.

“Let me out,” Zitao demands. “Allow me to step out into the gardens, at least.”

The Emperor’s hand stills, bowl a breath from his lips. Steam curls up, licking the rim, the concoction still too hot. “What would you give me in exchange?”

“You said you wanted to tame me? Best me in combat.”

He laughs, then. Head thrown back, throat bared. Like Zitao just told him the silliest of jokes. “Princeling,” he manages to say, catching his breath, “I could beat you with my eyes closed.”

He doesn’t understand, Zitao realizes. He doesn’t know. He thinks he does, but he’s never been to the monasteries, up north. He doesn’t even imagine the secrets Zitao was made privy to. “Let us spar, then. One fight, Your Majesty. If you win, I will kneel to you willingly.”

The Emperor’s eyes are piercing, hungry. Zitao does not tremble. “One fight, then. Let me see what Huang has to offer.”

Arrogant, presumptuous, honorless man.

 

🌙

 

Zitao expects the duel to be a public affair. Instead, Emperor Wu waits for him in a clearing, alone, surrounded by large trees that will hide them from curious eyes. He is not wearing his ceremonial robes, but a simple tunic and pants, and a pair of worn-out boots. Here, like this, he looks younger, and he looks more dangerous than he did even back in Huang, in armor.

“You really do not fear me,” Zitao remarks, motioning to their surroundings.

“I think you are smart enough not to try and murder me in such an obvious fashion,” his enemy shrugs. “Distasteful, too. I was told the Huang Clan values its reputation above all else.”

Zitao _growls._ “The Huang Clan is dead.”

“You are here,” the Emperor says.

“Because you are merciful,” Zitao deadpans, fake-bows, insolent. He gets hit in the face with the staff in the Emperor’s hand for his trouble. The impact reverberates inside his skull, his cheek burning.

“Mind your mouth, little prince,” the Emperor says, very quietly. He offers the staff to Zitao, then. There is another one, waiting, planted in the dirt, for him. Zitao says nothing, accepts the wooden weapon. Takes off his own tunic, ties up his hair, fastens a red ribbon around his bicep.

They circle each other. In the Emperor’s eyes, Zitao can read confidence, but also cold, calm calculation. In Zitao’s chest there is a storm, and he knows it will cost him this fight if he does not rein it in. Anger is only good when it is channeled. Hatred can be a powerful weapon, but only when it is controlled.

The Emperor strikes first. The staff flies to Zitao’s face, a perfect half circle drawn in the air, almost too fast to be seen. It catches Zitao right across the ear, the pain sharp and hot. Like an alarm bell, it wakes the fighter in him, unleashes the tiger. Zitao’s vision turns red.

He shoves the staff into the ground, uses it to propulse his lower body up, rotates his waist, plants both feet in his opponent’s sternum. The Emperor reels from the impact, stumbles, coughing. Zitao doesn’t give him the time to catch his breath. Palm open, hand akin a blade, he hits quick and efficient, on the side of his neck. The Emperor grabs him by the wrist, but Zitao sees it coming, twists out of his grip and hits him again. He gets a round kick to the solar plexus in exchange, then the staff meets his face once more, this time drawing blood. Zitao spits, the droplets red, dark on the dirt. The Emperor is panting, his expression animalistic. Zitao feels his own lips stretch into a rageful grin. _I’m not letting you have this. I’m not letting you win._

He tugs the staff out of the mud, holds it like a sword. The Emperor reads him like a book, immediately mirrors his action. The wooden sticks cross in the air, once, twice, three times, until it becomes clear that they are too evenly matched in speed, in strength. Zitao knows this game—it only ends when the first body gives up. So instead he turns himself into a snake, undulates and avoids, then takes a step forward, swift as a dancer, elbow angled and raised, and mashes the hard bone into the Emperor’s nose. It makes a sickening sound as it busts open, hemoglobin flowing like an ebbing river. Wu should have taken off his tunic, Zitao thinks manically. It is unforgivably stained now.

Fire runs through his veins. Guided by memory, by knowledge, Zitao lets his training overtake him. It is like breathing the air of the mountains again, like floating—like meditation. His limbs move of their own accord, like an army, like the perfectly aligned parts of a well-oiled machine. Where his skin touches foreign skin it comes out wet with blood. The Emperor lets out a startled moan of intense pain, and then with a _thump,_ his back hits the ground.

Forearm pressed to his clavicles, Zitao dreams, lucidly, of putting down all his weight, stealing the air from the man’s lungs.

Then the Emperor coughs, a pathetic wheezing sound, and Zitao finds himself brutally brought back to reality. _As long as I breathe._

Teeth bared, he smiles his most vicious smile. “I win.”

“Let me up.”

“Yield,” Zitao snarls. “Tell me I won.”

The Emperor’s face is stone, a wall. But the blood on his chin tells another story, paints him into an animal. Red smeared over his mouth, he looks exactly like he does in Zitao’s nightmares, exactly like a kingslayer ought to look.

It’s his eyes Zitao cannot look away from. Because he is being observed again, with a new hunger, a hunger he does not quite understand. The Emperor’s gaze is prodding, but Zitao does not know what it is searching for, and it makes him uneasy, makes him feel trapped inside his own skin.

“You win,” the Emperor says finally. In his voice there is resignation, and it is music to Zitao’s ears, sweet retribution.

 _I win,_ he takes with him back to his room, his step lighter than it’s been in weeks. _I win, I win,_ like a song, like a lullaby.

 

🌙🌙🌙

  



	2. Chapter 2

WE ARE AT THE CROSSROADS, MY LITTLE OUTLAW  
AND THIS IS THE MAP OF MY HEART, THE LANDSCAPE AFTER CRUELTY

_— RICHARD SIKEN_

 

**———**

 

 

Tzuyu applies a thick, greenish cream to Zitao’s bruises under Yixing’s cautious guidance. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t break anything,” Yixing admonishes. Healers all share that trait, Zitao has come to find. At the palace, back home, the doctor that took care of the royal family always seemed to have space in him for more worry. At the monastery, the monks saw to anyone who happened to wander in in need of help—foreigners, heretics, criminals, all treated equally. 

“Your Emperor is magnanimous,” Zitao snorts. 

Yixing raises a brow. “I heard you bested him.”

It’s a surprise, that the Emperor has broadcasted his humiliation. Although Zitao supposes the imperial healer would know, even if the rest of the Court doesn’t. 

It’s curiosity, then, that makes him ask, “And how is His Imperial Majesty’s health? Have I overstepped my bounds?” 

“You have been crossing lines since you arrived at the palace, my Lord,” Yixing laughs lightly. He speaks, quite often, with the easy tone of someone who does not fear consequences. Not for the first time, Zitao wonders why the Emperor seems to send his most trusted people to tend to Zitao. “But the Great Dragon is strong, and he has the Gods’ protection. It takes more than a few punches to really harm him.” 

They both know the Emperor took more than a few punches. Zitao is certain he felt ribs crack under his fist, at the very least. He had hoped breaking bones would mend his own wounds, maybe. But all it did was leave him empty, once the rush of adrenaline had passed. 

“Ah,” Zitao hisses as Tzuyu massages a particularly tender spot. “It has been two days, and he has not left his quarters.” 

“You are still very new, here,” Yixing says. “So very unused to the habits of the Court. The Emperor does not mingle.”

_ He’s been mingling with me,  _ Zitao doesn’t retort. “I expected, at least—that he would call for me. Punishment or reward, but—but something.” 

“Were you promised anything in case of victory?”

“A piece of the gardens,” Zitao nods, dreaming already. “A place to train.” 

“The Great Dragon is many things, but a liar is not one of them. His Majesty always honors his word.”

The Wu household signed a treaty, when Zitao was not born yet, outlining the conditions for peace. Huang never broke it. 

“I’m exhausted,” he says. “I want to return to my chambers.” 

Tzuyu blushes, looks down. “It’s almost over, my Lord.” She lathers the salve on his forearm, where the Emperor grabbed him hard enough to leave an imprint of his large hand, purple, yellowing, like a thick bracelet. Servants wear gold bands, here. A claim, a mark of ownership, showing which house they belong to. Zitao had guessed, on his first day, that he would receive one as well. His wrists have remained unbound. 

When he lays his battered body on the mat, the flashes of pain sing to him like an ancestral prayer. In the mountains, there had not been a single night spent acheless. He has thought about that many times, lying awake in this room, since being brought here. 

Maybe if he had kept his routine, if he had trained harder, if he hadn’t let himself go, lured and lulled by the luxury of being a  _ Prince,  _ when first and foremost Zitao is a  _ soldier,  _ maybe then his King would still be alive. 

 

🌙

 

Eyes cat-like, body carefully firm, purposefully made into a weapon, the man standing in front of Zitao is shorter than him but taller in every way that matters. 

“I’m Jin Zhongda,” he smiles, crooked, impish, “But until you earn the privilege to address me by name, you shall call me Chen.” 

Being talked  _ down  _ to, being expected to bow, or obey, it still stings like walking on glass, it still catches Zitao unprepared. He almost bites out  _ I will call you whatever I want.  _ Half his days, lately, seem to be spent swallowing down bitter, half-chewed sentences. 

This is Zitao’s present. The Son of Heaven is generous, and he is trusting, Boxian marveled as he helped Zitao dress in the morning, fastening light armor over a thin white tunic. 

Chen trains the Imperial Guard. He used to guide them on the battlefield, too, alongside the Emperor, but he injured his knee, and now he prepares men to go die in his stead. It almost doesn’t show, but Zitao knows where to look. Every three steps, Chen wavers, imperceptible except in the way he winces, more at the idea of incompetence than in pain. His body is compact, lines clean, like the Gods drew him for this purpose precisely—slide under his opponents, win by virtue of being a small, deadly thing. 

Zitao spars with him in the courtyard, with wooden swords, while Chen’s men holler and hoot. Chen wins two times, grin easy, blinding. Zitao comes out on top once. After that Chen uses him like a book for his soldiers to learn, pointing at his weaknesses, the blunt edge of his makeshift weapon grazing Zitao’s skin with every word. It reminds him of the mountains, the only place where Zitao had been stripped of power before. But it had been voluntary then, a willing exchange. Here every concession he makes he makes with his teeth gritted, calculating. 

It’s a routine, at least. It’s what he asked for. To be allowed to exercise body and mind, to be treated like a man and not a prize. It is more, really, than an enemy would be given at his brother’s court. That thought hurts in the way that praying hurts, a constant ache in Zitao’s knees. 

“You are getting better at taking it,” Chen tells him one morning, and he is right, but he is also wrong. At home he already knew how to be water, how to dance with his opponent’s blade, how to dialogue with fists. Here he has been closed like a clam. It is always a mistake, his Master had explained, back in Tai’an. A hard surface breaks. A soft surface bends. 

“Again,” Zitao demands, raising his guard. Chen’s body twists like a snake’s. Palm open, he slices the air. Zitao blocks him. They do it again, and again, until they’re both panting like dogs, and smiling like dogs, too. 

“I want to know who trained you,” Chen says when they break apart finally, his chest still heaving. “I’ve never been matched like this before, except by—” he cuts himself off. Zitao just stares. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“I cannot talk about my Master.” 

Cannot,  _ would not  _ even if he could. Tai’an is not a story one tells. 

“I was taught here,” Chen offers. He doesn’t insist. Maybe he thinks he can coax it out of Zitao, swapping memories. “My father served His Majesty’s father as Lord Commander of the Guard.” 

Raised among royals, then. It explains the poise, the way Chen holds himself, how authority seems to flow through his veins. He must have molded his very voice to his father’s modulations, copying, absorbing, the way Zitao did a lifetime ago in Qingdao, always trailing after Lu Han. 

“You grew up alongside the Emperor,” Zitao realizes. “He took you with him when he went out for conquest, instead of leaving you here to safeguard his Court.” 

“His Majesty first learned the art of fighting with me,” Chen says, proud. Zitao can picture it. The Emperor’s large frame, maybe less defined then but still imposing, clashing with Chen’s lithe body, the two of them swirling, circling each other. He thinks of boys rolling in the mud, painting bruises on each other. It hurts, like all images evocative of home do. All scenes he can insert himself in—and most of what he sees he can  _ always  _ insert himself in, because at the end of the day a palace is a palace. 

It is an unpleasant thought, that he and the man who murdered his family could share so much. 

 

🌙

 

A week passes before Zitao lays eyes on the Emperor again. Standing on the stairs, above them, observing his men practicing their routine, he still wears the proofs of Zitao’s victory on his face, although faded. Lu Han had walked into a door once, drunk, and he had had a blue mark on the side of his face for days. Every morning a servant would come in and cover the ugly spot with white powder, cautiously, completely. 

The Guard gets in formation with seamless ease, like a flock of birds, the second Chen barks the order. They hold still like marble statues for their Emperor to admire, but the man barely spares them a glance, walks directly to their Commander instead. Chen bows down gracefully, his voice crystalline as he greets, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Zhongda,” the Emperor smiles, two fingers to his shoulder, a fleeting caress. “Walk with me.” 

Zitao watches them as they leave, along the flower path delimited by small white stones that leads down to the water, the small pond that Zitao has only ever seen from afar, but where he knows children play. The Emperor is much taller than Chen, but he leans into Chen’s presence like a taut bow. The distance between them is so small that the Emperor’s heavy robes keep brushing against Chen’s armor. And Chen, a man Zitao has only ever seen shouting, taunting, at best  _ curious  _ but always calculating; Chen’s grin is so bright it could rival the sun. Even from a distance, in the lines of his face there is affection, painted like black ink on rice paper. The sort of camaraderie built in sweat and blood and tears. 

When Chen comes back his step is lighter, his eyes maybe less cloudy. And Zitao knows great men are demons to some. Knows his own father must have been someone’s nightmare, knows his brother’s hand has been unfair and at times fair and yet still harsh. But there is knowing, and then there is  _ grasping,  _ and Zitao’s mind cannot reconcile the monster in his King’s room, covered in blood, and this man who seems to bring Chen joy simply by looking in his direction. How could anyone this terrible ever be gentle? 

_ But you, yourself,  _ says a voice inside himself he does not recognize this time,  _ were you not trained to be a killer? With these hands that held your baby brother when he could not walk yet, with these hands that embraced your mother, weren’t you supposed to cut life at the stem, too?  _

_ All hunters,  _ the voice continues, and it has a shape now, a taste. He knows who is speaking. His older sister, his beloved  _ dajie,  _ always the voice of reason.  _ All hunters are lovers too. That is why they hunt, Xiao Tao. To bring food home, to those they love.  _

 

🌙

 

It is a few days before Zitao is called to the Emperor’s quarters again. This time he finds him at his desk, carefully tracing characters on thin, brittle paper, the lines of his writing elegant like dancers. 

“You called for me,” Zitao bows. The Emperor turns to look at him. “You’ve healed well,” he remarks, setting his dip pen down. “Zhongda tells me you’ve made quite the impression on the field, too.” 

“I did beat his sovereign, after all,” Zitao snides.  _ Be smart,  _ Renjun chastises, a hissed whisper in his ear. Zitao almost jumps. He thought the ghosts had left him. 

Against all odds, Emperor Wu chuckles. “You did.” He pushes himself off his chair, now standing at eye level with Zitao. They’re close enough that Zitao can see the zigzag of his scar now, the edges where it didn’t quite heal right. He wonders who managed to fight his way to a breath away from a king—or was he still a prince, maybe, when an enemy slashed his face?

“I will be traveling to the Chu province,” the Emperor continues. “You are to come with me.” 

Zitao bites his bottom lip, hard, to keep his reflexive exclamation inside.  _ You’re taking me out of the Imperial Palace?  _ “I go where His Majesty commands,” he bows again. The Emperor does not seem fooled by the deference. 

As if reading Zitao’s mind, he tilts his head to the side. “Don’t make me shackle you, little prince. If you try to flee, my men will find you. Don’t make me regret how long your leash has been allowed to be.” 

_ He is aware, at least,  _ Zitao thinks bitterly.  _ That I am nothing but a dog, here.  _

In the evening, soaking in his bath as Boxian gently soaps his hair, Zitao replays a thought that won’t leave him, like a coin between his fingers, turning. Every time he’s been summoned has been to receive a message that could have easily been transmitted from a servant’s mouth. That is how the order of things went at his brother’s palace, and how things seem to go here, too, except where Zitao is concerned. 

“He calls for me,” Zitao muses, mostly to himself. “In the middle of the day, when he should be busy  _ ruling.”  _

Boxian’s hands still momentarily where they are massaging his scalp. “I beg your pardon, my Lord?”

“The Emperor,” Zitao elaborates. “Do nobles just come and go out of his quarters? That hardly sounds proper to me. Is the Wu household vulgar in this as well?” 

The breath Boxian takes before answer is sharp, short. “No, Your Highness. I have not been in this wing long, but even with his own brother… His Imperial Majesty sends a herald, and then the Prince and his footmen are allowed in the throne room for an audience.” 

“Then it makes no sense,” Zitao frowns. “Why does he—he calls me to his private rooms—”

Boxian has moved to the side, now, to collect fresh water and rinse Zitao’s hair. His cheekbones are pink.

“My Lord, I—doesn’t His Imperial Majesty—”

“Speak freely,” Zitao orders, when Boxian huffs frustratedly, stumbling on his own words. 

“I apologize profusely, Your Highness, but it is not  _ uncommon _ for members of the  _ hòugōng  _ to be summoned in such a fashion.”

“But we don’t—” Zitao starts, and then he eats it back hastily. Boxian thinks the Emperor is fucking Zitao. The entirety of the palace, most likely, thinks the Emperor is fucking Zitao. 

“He hasn’t called for Lady Song in quite a while, now” Boxian continues, seemingly unaware of the earth-shattering realization Zitao is having. 

Zitao’s frown intensifies. “What?”

“I heard the First Consort’s ladies-in-waiting talk,” Boxian explains, grabbing for a towel. “She has not left her wing of the palace in days.” Tone now conspiratorial as he softly dries Zitao’s hair, he leans in, “Word on the street is Lady Song is very, very upset.” 

There is a color, to his voice, that Zitao cannot quite place at first, before it hits him: Boxian sounds proud. His master is, supposedly, the current favorite of the Son of Heaven. 

Retrospectively, this might explain, as well, why the people Zitao encounters inside the palace have been mostly leaving him alone, bowing then scurrying away. 

And now the Emperor is taking him on what Zitao can only assume is a diplomatic visit. Is he  _ blind,  _ stupid? Does he simply not care? Does he finally intend to make good on the threat that has been looming above Zitao’s head like a suspended dagger? Zitao’s stomach twists uncomfortably at that. 

“Your Highness,” Boxian shakes him lightly. He must have dozed off, carried by his anxieties. “Your sleep robes, my Lord.” 

In bed, no matter how tired he was barely minutes earlier, slumber does not take him. He feels himself buzzing, questions knocking against each other inside his skull. 

What does this man  _ want  _ from him? If not Zitao’s body, and if not Zitao’s life, why is he at his court? Kept at arm’s length, and—he understands that now— _ protected?  _

 

🌙

 

They ride out at dawn, two days later. Zitao is given his own horse, and allowed one servant with him—he takes Boxian. Lu Han, on the rare occasions where he would wander away from royal grounds, always traveled in a carriage. But Wu is a warrior, has spent most of his life away, sword in hand. Zitao wonders if the throne is too soft for him, sometimes. If he prefers the harshness of the road, and that is why he goes on missions like this one himself, when he has ambassadors. 

He leads the convoy, regal, posture perfect. Chen is by his side, flanked by two members of the Imperial Guard. Zitao is too far behind to discern their words, but when the speed allows it, they are constantly talking— _ joking,  _ laughing, that easiness between them again. Zitao has had friends, has had brothers in arms, but never this sort of flux and flow. Some people, perhaps, are born under the same star. His youngest brother had a manservant that he treated like his own blood, Zitao remembers. That boy, too, is probably dead, his body rotting back in Qingdao. And just like that, Zitao shakes his head, the anger overwhelming, acid in his mouth like citrus, stinging. The edges of his vision blur, red blending in, and he has to hold onto the reins not to slip. 

“My Lord?” Boxian asks, worry infusing every word. Zitao must have visibly swerved. 

“I’m fine,” he grits. He digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek. The taste of metal floods his mouth, calming. The sharp pain of it is grounding. “I’m fine,” he repeats, clearer. 

 

🌙

 

They set up tents in a clearing on the first night. The guards work like honeybees, fast and meticulous. They are not hiding, and this is Wu territory, so a fire is lit, and food is heated. The servants eat on the side, with the guards. Zitao misses Boxian’s presence, the steady stream of his accent. 

It’s the first time he eats alongside the Emperor while there are others present. His demeanor is different, more poised, less relaxed. It is strange, that he would be  _ relaxed,  _ alone with Zitao, who wants to kill him. But the Emperor is tense here, every movement controlled, choreographed. Even conversing with Chen, under the gazes of onlookers, does not seem to unlock him. Zitao notes the way his fingers close on the hem of his own sleeve, furtively. Nervousness is physical sometimes. Once upon a time, when they were boys still, Zitao sat on the edge of Lu Han’s bed and forced his hand uncoiled. 

_ You’re hurting yourself,  _ a whisper. Lu Han’s nails had been digging into the meat of his palm. 

These are the memories of a dead, naive child, Zitao tells himself. No use in dwelling on the past. Nothing, not even Wu’s head, will bring his brother back. 

It does not mean Zitao doesn’t want it. 

When the meal is finished, the Emperor retires to his tent. Zitao remains still, stiff, seated in lotus position. It is one of the Emperor’s servants that pushes his shoulder, voice low and frantic. 

“Your mat was made already. Don’t keep him waiting.” 

Zitao furrows his brows. “Do not touch me.” 

“You are sleeping in his tent,” the servant insists, ignoring his outrage. “He is not known for patience.” 

It hits him, once again, that the serving staff  _ fears  _ the Emperor, but there is not an ounce of respect in how they speak about him when they think that they can get away with it. It clashes with how his men look at him, up, with adoration. 

He pushes the ochre fabric out of the way, enters the tent. The Emperor is standing, unfastening his clothes. 

“Ah,” he exhales when he sees Zitao, “You’re here. Help me undress.” 

This, at least, Zitao knows how to do instinctively. There were always servants, back home, but it was a ritual, when he was younger. Lu Han would close his eyes, stand very still. 

_ He will be your King, one day,  _ their father had said.  _ Before he is your blood, he is your sovereign. You must learn to serve him.  _

He unclasps the bronze plastron first, sets it on the small portable table that was brought in earlier. Then he unties the robes, helps the Emperor slip them off his shoulders. There is a tunic underneath, and that is when Zitao’s fingers start trembling. The Emperor closes his hand around his. 

“Do you still fear me, Princeling?” 

A positive answer would not be the exact truth, but it still would sound better, sound better than—you remind me—you remind me of—

“I apologize, Your Majesty.” 

“Are you afraid of me? Yes, or no.” 

“Yes,” Zitao says, hoping it is what the other man wants to hear. 

The Emperor lets go of his hands. 

“I’ll do the rest by myself.”

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” Zitao repeats, now a little urgent. Is he going to be sent to sleep outside? He doesn’t care much about the dirt or the hard ground, but everywhere in this land is enemy territory for him. Cast away visibly, he loses his last piece of armor. 

The Emperor throws him a look, unreadable. “Be silent. Ready yourself for bed.” 

He takes off his tunic, one swift one-handed movement. Not like a nobleman who is used to being pampered, prepared; but like a fighter, with no time to lose. Zitao gasps. 

It’s the first time he sees the Emperor’s back. The golden skin there is marred with scars. Long white lashes, raised. Zitao raises his hand automatically, to touch, before he realizes what he’s doing and immediately lowers it. These are not battle scars. 

“These are long healed, little prince,” the Emperor tells him. “Worry not.” 

His voice is so deep. It is strange, how some details first go unnoticed. 

“I’m not  _ worried,”  _ Zitao hisses. “Where did you even  _ get  _ those?” 

Curiosity kills cats every day, but Zitao is a lucky feline, apparently. The Emperor just laughs as he unlaces his pants. 

“You have to earn this story. Or you can buy it from me, with one of your own.” 

“You know all my stories,” Zitao says, the taste in his mouth acrid once more. “You know what the inside of my room used to look like, a place made just for me. You know what my sisters sound like when they beg for their lives. Even I do not hold that knowledge.” Both his hands ball into shaking fists. He’s too fired up now to stop, even if speaking even more out of turn is the very opposite of wise. His voice breaks as he continues, “You’ve known the last breath of a child I received into my arms directly from the womb. Tell me, Your Imperial Majesty, then. What stories do I still have to offer?” 

He expects to be slapped. But the violence doesn’t come. Instead, to his bewilderment, the Emperor lowers his head. 

“I did not kill your sisters,” he says finally. 

Zitao feels very, very dizzy, suddenly.

“What—what do you  _ mean.”  _

“They did not die by my hand,” the Emperor explains. His expression seems pained. Zitao has some trouble understanding why. “I gave very specific orders. You were to be taken, alive. Your sisters, too. We spare women and children, always.”

“Renjun is  _ dead,”  _ Zitao shouts. 

Wu’s gaze hardens at that. “An eighteen year old boy is not a child.”

“Then why me?” He needs to  _ know.  _ It has been eating him alive, from the inside, a snake lodged at the pit of his belly. “What have I done to be damned this way, to walk this earth still when—I don’t—you didn’t even bring me here to  _ fuck  _ me.” He’s hiccuping. His face must be red, blotchy. When he was very young, he would throw tantrums that upset the queen immensely. In Tai’an he learned meditation; he hasn’t felt flames in his veins like this in more than a decade. 

But it’s like the floodgates have been opened, and now he cannot stop, like when him and Lu Han were boys, rolling down the hill behind the royal gardens at full speed. 

“Little prince,” the Emperor says, softly. Then, when he does not calm down,  _ “Zitao.”  _

Hearing his given name is like walking through a frozen stream. 

“You are here because I want you here,” the Emperor continues. “And I am the Great Dragon, powers bestowed upon me by the Heavens. My desires do not need to have a meaning.” 

But he’s lying. For the first time, Zitao sees it clear as day. 

The Emperor is lying. It’s in the thin line of his mouth, lips pressed together. It’s that one quick flutter of his eyelashes. No veneer to cover it. It’s all over his face, really, and Zitao cannot believe he missed it all this time. He was asleep, numb. He is perfectly awake now. 

His Master’s words resonate inside his skull.  _ Take in your surroundings like numbers before the tally.  _

The Emperor is hiding something, something that is keeping Zitao alive. 

And Zitao is going to discover what that is.

 

🌙 🌙🌙

  
  
  



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